AD ASTRA PER ASPERA

For years, I have been waging war against wild, barren brambles that have overtaken a section of my yard. I yank them up, only to have then defiantly crop up again, hardier than ever.

For midsummer last year, I had the intention of uprooting them forever. I had grand plans to weave the strands into a wreath—no matter the bloodshed and discomfort. I was beginning strong boundary work, and thought it would be an excellent talisman.

I thought back to a name I call myself , and could not bear to pull them. I wasn’t ready.

Last week, the time was right. I gathered utensils, and went to deal with them once and for all.

They were covered in flowers: given space, they were able to bear fruit.

It’s a metaphor for practice: everyone thinks that the work must be profound and moving, each time, or you aren’t doing it right. I have a long-standing friendship that mirrors this scenario: I can’t be mad at them for doing the same things they always do. The only thing I can do is decide how I want to deal with it. I’ve been an all-or-nothing girl for so long, a bridge burner. I realized that lately I have allowed fallow seasons for work, friends, and situations instead of scything them to the black earth. The best action can be a standstill or a pivot. I have begun my strong boundary work in earnest, and find inaction and observance as my unlikely talismans.

Sometimes, practice is about falling down on the job, too, and bearing witness to the snowy unfurling of unexpected sweetness.